


i shall turn, turn my head to the sun

by narquelie



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narquelie/pseuds/narquelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The outside appearance means nothing,” he remarks.</p>
<p>“Now these are clearly your mother's words.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i shall turn, turn my head to the sun

When the object of your constant irritation never leaves your side, it's infinitely difficult to keep your nerves under control. And even though you know that it's all for the best, and that said object does his very best to be accommodating, it doesn't make the situation any less burdensome.

The palace is peaceful on a Sunday afternoon – the court is most likely sleeping off last night's activities – but the quietness makes Elizabeth even more conscious of her guard's footsteps behind her. She bites back a great sigh, quickening her pace.

Of course, it was her husband's idea. After she'd fainted in the hallway the previous week – she hadn't hurt herself in the slightest, as her dutiful ladies in waiting had caught her before she hit the ground – he insisted on having his most trusted guard follow her around, in case she were in danger. Both royal mothers tried to reason with him, explaining that her dizziness was nothing more than a common pregnancy symptom, and that it shouldn't happen again – but he wouldn't have any of it. Elizabeth can't really decide how to feel about his overprotectiveness. Her heart seems to flutter like a butterfly every time he shows his concern and affection for her, (which happens _a lot_ these days). But sometimes his unnecessary worry exasperates her – her pregnancy does not make her an invalid and she is quite certain she can take good care of herself. She is strong and healthy, and most of all, she is her mother's daughter – childbearing shouldn't be much of a trouble to her. Still, the king is too stubborn to see sense, and so here she is, stuck with a guard at her back like a thorn in her side for the next eight months.

When they reach the king's chambers, her valiant protector rushes to open the doors for her, then makes a move as if to follow her inside. In that moment, Elizabeth's patience wavers. She turns on her heel and gives him a hard glare.

“Don't you think the king is more than capable of taking care of me himself?” Her voice gains an unpleasant edge, one that she didn't really intend to be there. But she feels so restless and irritated, as if she is sitting on pins and needles, and the guard's overzealous behaviour is not something she wants to deal with any longer than absolutely necessary.

The man lowers his head meekly, and Elizabeth quickly steps inside, biting back the guilt that starts to swell inside her.

The king's chambers are nothing exquisite – designed to be practical, not representative. The front room is his study chamber, and upon walking in Elizabeth sees him seated by his grand desk, surrounded by papers.

Her heart seems to instantly calm down, and the nauseating guilt she's been feeling disappears; she's not really surprised – she has already grown used to the fact that her husband's presence has a soothing effect on her. His hand messes up his hair while he reads, still too focused on his lecture to realise she has come. It looks slightly ridiculous and very much endearing, and Elizabeth smiles fondly.

“Henry,” she calls. Instantly his blue eyes capture hers; and she can't help a shiver run down her spine. They have long given up on formalities between the two of them, having grown close to each other in the past months. It still amazes her how quickly that has happened, how quickly they have turned from enemies to something else entirely. She doesn't dare say the words, not yet, but there's such warmth in her at the very thought of him, at the thought of spending the rest of her days with him, at the thought of bearing his children... Her hand as if of its own accord drops to her belly, and rests on the small bump, still only barely visible beneath her gown.

“You wished to see me.”

“Ah, yes.” He looks at her piercingly, with great care documenting her appearance. “You're flushed, are you unwell?”

She blushes even more at his words, her cheeks positively burning now. She's been contemplating his mussed hair – and that it looks almost as it does in the morning when he wakes up after their nightly activities. Elizabeth's heart speeds up at the memory of the previous night, and she tries to concentrate on steadying her breath. It is not customary for the king to visit the queen's bedchambers after the task of conceiving a child is fulfilled – but Henry still comes to her every night, and stays until morning. She shamelessly cherishes that; it thrills her that he still finds her desirable, and she finds that every next day he seems to grow more affected by her.

There's also the case of her own need, that seems to consume her far too often for her tastes.

Like now.

“It's nothing,” she assures him, but there's nowhere to hide from his gaze, and Henry is not a man easy to fool. He looks concerned, most likely going to carry her off to bed again, and that – as long as it's the middle of the day and she's alone – is something she would fiercely despise. “I am fine. What is it that you wished to discuss?”

There's still a trace of suspicion in his eyes, but thankfully he decides to drop the subject. “We need to talk about your sister Cecily's marriage.”

Elizabeth nods solemnly – she knew the time for that would come, sooner or later – but she can already feel the upcoming heartache at her sister's departure.

“My mother has picked three suitors she deems appropriate; now you and I are to make the final choice.”

Elizabeth tries her best not to roll her eyes. What kind of a choice it is, to choose from a handful of candidates picked by Margaret Regina? Knowing her, poor Cecily's choice will be between a retired monk and a greying farmer.

“Very well,” she says at last. “Where are the paintings?”

Now it is Henry's turn to contain his exasperation. “There aren't any.”

“What do you mean there aren't any? How are we supposed to choose then?”

She looks offended and horrified at the same time – presenting a sight that seems to amuse her husband very much.

“The outside appearance means nothing,” he remarks.

“Now these are clearly your mother's words.”

“Still very much true,” he says cheerfully. He's jesting with her, and she desperately wants to feel more offended – but once again, she discovers that she cannot stay mad at him for long.

“How are we supposed to do this then?”

“By analysing their standing, my love.”

Her heart almost stops again, because there they are – _the_ words – and elation fills her like liquid fire. He only said them once before, when she told him she was with child, but she thought it must have been nothing more than a spur of a moment. But here they are, once again.

She tries to hide her joy, but her eyes clearly betray her. His smile widens, full of fondness and sincerity and he extends his hand in her direction.

His hand is warm and huge around her small one, and – as always – feels like the perfect fit. He pulls her closer to him, until her legs hit his knees and she almost loses her balance; but as if he wanted to achieve just that, he slips his arm around her waist and pulls her down onto his lap.

Elizabeth feels a thrill at the impropriety of the situation if anyone were to walk in. Her subdued desire rages again at their closeness, and she leans slightly into his body.

“There's Sir Richard Carlisle, Sir John Welles and Sir John Littleborough,” he says, his breath tickling her neck in the most delicious of ways. He hands her the papers on each of the men.

None of them seem to be particularly interesting; two of them are widowers, all three have considerate fortunes. There is nothing that can make her choose the best candidate, simply because they all seem very much the same. The only factor that may make a difference to her is their age.

Somehow, Henry's lips find their way to her neck, and Elizabeth momentarily forgets about everything else. He nips at the tender skin just below her ear, then kisses his way back down her neck. Her whole body grows warm and extremely sensitive to his touch, and she closes her eyes in pleasure. There is a wanton moan that threatens to escape her mouth when his hand falls onto her thigh. She can't imagine anything she would like more than for him to take her right here and there among the papers and quills, and to hell with anyone who would dare to interrupt them...

But there was something important she had to do, wasn't there?

Almost painfully, she pulls back from him and turns around. The sight of his dilated pupils and red parted lips nearly makes her waver in her decision. _Nearly._

“Henry,” she says slowly, “none of these men actually matter. They have fortunes, but no real power.”

The king lets out a pained groan.

“Do you really think I will let you marry my sister to a _no one_?”

“They aren't no ones,” he explains, taking one of the files from her hands. “They are people most loyal to us, those who stood unwavering by our side from the beginning. A marriage to a princess is a way of showing our gratitude and securing their future support.”

Elizabeth narrows her eyes, in a way that makes her all too resembling to her mother. “And what kind of advantage does it give to the princess in question?”

“A great fortune.”

“That's not enough.”

“I'm sorry but it's the only way, Elizabeth.”

Anger boils in her – at the refusal to give her a choice, a proper one, and at her husband's ridiculous stubbornness. “This is my sister! You can't just marry her off to some friend of your mother's with a big farm miles away from here.”

Henry looks horrified at her simplification. “These are good men. You know my mother is fond of Cecily, and wouldn't wish her anything bad.”

He has a point – but a slight one, because Elizabeth is pretty sure no fondness for anyone makes the difference to Margaret Beaufort when it comes to her wielding power.

“Tell me why."

There is a moment of hesitation – she can see it in the furrow of his brow, the flex of his jaw – but their mutual agreement to always tell each other the truth banishes it away. “We can't have your sister marry anyone more... ambitious. Until we have an heir, she is the second in line to the throne.”

Elizabeth shakes her head fiercely. “She is my sister. She would never even think of such a thing.”

“I wager your father said the same thing once. I believe he too loved his brothers. And they both turned against him.”

She doesn't know what to say to that, except to repeat her previous statement.

“And you see,” Henry continues, his eyes sad, “anyone more greedy, more ambitious would use your sister. Human nature rarely is able to give up on such an opportunity.”

He wraps his hands around hers and brings them to his mouth. His lips graze her fingers, a reassuring warmth.

“These are good men. I swear it to you, Lizzie.”

It's easy to believe him, easy to let it go; she understands his reasoning, the fundamental need to secure his dynasty, to keep the throne he'd spent all his life fighting for. But what irks her – what really gets to her – is that she cannot make her own choice; she's a childbearing doll for them all, someone to trick into thinking that she's important while everyone else pulls the strings. The very fact that she hasn't been crowned yet speaks loads of that; she is the queen without a title, crownless, locked in her husband's arms like in a golden cage.

She knows he sees her unease – of course he does, he reads her better than one would read a book – and his brows furrow in concern. He can't give up on the matter, that much is obvious, but he doesn't want to hurt her either; quarrels between them are what he fears most, especially now that she's pregnant and every chagrin can be, in his opinion, disastrous for their baby. Elizabeth wants to cry and laugh at the same time – at the ludicrousness of her husband and at the pitiful role she plays at court – so she bites her lip and nods her head, her hands squeezing his lightly.

“I understand,” she says, in what she hopes is a pleasant voice. Henry looks at her with those wide blue eyes of his, so attentive and hopeful. “But on one condition.”

For a moment he looks as if he is imagining apocalypse, then he nods solemnly and says, “Very well.”

“We're going to choose the youngest one.”

She bites back a smile – this time a proper one – because her husband's eyes dance with mirth and he nods his head with great enthusiasm. “That would be John Welles.”

“John Welles indeed.”

For a moment they just sit there, without saying a word. She wonders if it is her cue to leave, when suddenly his arms are around her and he's pulling her into an embrace. She moves a little, so that she's resting comfortably against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. The sound of his steady heartbeat soothes her; and there is something peaceful about his warm presence, something constant and lovely. Somehow it feels more intimate than any of the kisses they exchange; it means that there is more between them than simple lust – there's also affection and true care.

“Don't be angry with me,” he whispers into her hair, “I cannot take it when you are.”

She merely smiles at that, her fingers slowly moving up and down the length of his arm.

“You must be tired. Maybe you should go to bed?” he says, after a moment.

Elizabeth's eyes flicker to her husband's with playfulness. “Only if you come with me.”

“Trust me, as much as I'd love to,” he says in a strained voice, that makes her all the more excited, “I have a letter to write.”

She shifts slightly, her lips pursed. “Surely it can wait a few hours?”

“When it comes to the king of France, I'm afraid not.” He takes a sharp intake of breath. “But as soon as I'm finished, I will join you immediately.”

From the place on his lap, Elizabeth is pretty certain that, indeed, he will.

 

 


End file.
